Entranced, Menolly watched from her screen of sea-grass. She was utterly engrossed by the small doings of eating, cleaning and resting. By and by, singly or in pairs, the lesser fire lizards winged up to the first of the sea-surrounded bluffs, lost quickly from Menolly’s sight as they secreted themselves in tiny creviced weyrs.
With graceful dignity, the queen and her bronze rose from their bathing. How they managed to fly with their glistening wings so close together, Menolly didn’t know. As one, they seemed to dart aloft, then glided in a slow spiral down to the Dragon Stones, disappearing on the seaside and out of Menolly’s vision.
Only then did she become conscious of discomfort; of the hot sun on her welted back, sand in the waist-band of her trousers, seeping into her shoes, dried as sweaty grit on her face and hands.
Cautiously, she wriggled back from the edge of the bluff. If the fire lizards knew they’d been overseen, they might not return to this cove. When she felt she’d crawled far enough, she got to a crouching position and ran for a way.
She felt as rarely privileged as if she’d been asked to Benden Weyr. She kicked up her heels in an excess of joy and then, spotting some thick marsh grass canes in the bog, snicked one off at the waterline. Her father may have taken her gitar away, but there were more materials than strings over a sounding box to make music.
She measured the proper length barrel and cut off the rest. She deftly made six holes top and two bottom, as Petiron had taught her, and in moments, she was playing her reed pipe. A saucy tune, bright and gay because she was happy inside. A tune about a little fire lizard queen, sitting on a rock in the lapping sea, preening herself for her adoring bronze.
She’d a bit of trouble with the obligatory runs and found herself changing keys, but when she’d rehearsed the tune several times, she decided she liked it. It sounded so different from the sort of melody Petiron had taught her, different from the traditional form. Furthermore, it sounded like a fire lizard song: sprightly, cunning, secretive.
She stopped her piping, puzzled. Did the dragons know about fire lizards?
Chapter 3
Holder, watch; Holder, learn
Something new in every Turn.
Oldest may be coldest, too.
Sense the right: find the true!
When Menolly finally got back to the Sea Hold, the sky was darkening. The Hall was bustling with the usual end of day activity. The oldsters were setting the dinner tables, tidying the great Hall and chattering away as if they hadn’t met for Turns instead of only that morning.
With luck, thought Menolly, she could get her sack down to the water rooms…
“Where did you go for those greens, Menolly? Nerat?” Her mother appeared in front of her.
“Almost.”
Immediately Menolly saw that her pert words were ill-timed. Mavi roughly grabbed the sack and peered inside critically. “If you’d not made the trip worth the while…Sail’s been sighted,”
“Sail?”
Mavi closed the sack and shoved it back into Menolly’s hands. “Yes, sail. You should have been back hours ago. Whatever possessed you to take off so far with Thread…”
“There weren’t any greens nearer…”
“With Thread due to fall anytime? You’re a fool twice over.”
“I was safe enough. I saw a dragonrider doing his sweep…”
That pleased Mavi. “Thank heavens we’re beholden to Benden. They’re a proper Weyr.” Mavi gave her daughter a shove towards the kitchen level. “Take those, and be sure the girls wash every speck of sand off. Who knows who’s sailing in?”
Menolly slipped through the busy kitchen, countering orders flung at her by various other women who saw in her a capable assistant at their own tasks. Menolly merely brandished the sack and proceeded down to the water rooms. There some of the older but still able women were busily sandscouring the best metal plates and trays.
“I must have one basin for the greens, auntie,” said Menolly, pushing up to the rank of stone sinks.
“Greens is easier on old skin than sand,” said one of the women in a quavering, long-suffering voice and promptly deposited her pile of plates into the sink be side her and pulled her plug.
“More sand in greens than cleaning,” another woman remarked in an acid tone.
“Yes, but take it off greens,” said the obliging one. “Oh, what a lovely mess of yellow-veins, too. Where did you find them this time of year, daughter?”
“Halfway to Nerat.” Menolly suppressed her grin at their startled shrieks of dismay. The furthest they’d stir from the Hold was the ledge in front on a sunny day.
“With Thread falling? You naughty girl!” “Did you hear about the sail?” ‘Who do you suppose?” “The new Harper, who else?” There was a wild chorus of cackling laughs and great wonderings about the appearance of the new Harper.
“They always send a young one here!’
“Petiron was old!”
“He got that way. Same as we did!”
“How would you remember?”
“Why not? I’ve lived through more Harpers than you have, my girl.”
“You have not! I came here from Red Sands in Ista…”
“You were born at Half-Circle, you old fool, and I birthed you!”
“Ha!”
Menolly listened to the four old women arguing back and forth until she heard her mother demanding to know if the greens had been washed. And where were the good plates and how was she to get anything done with all the gossip?
Menolly found a sieve large enough to hold the washed greens and brought them up for her mother’s inspection.
“Well, that’ll be enough for the head table,” Mavi said, poking at the glistening mound with her fork. Then she stared at her daughter. “You can’t appear like that. Here you, Bardie, take the greens and put the dressing on them. The one in the brown flask on the fourth shelf in the cool room. You, Menolly, have the goodness to get yourself sandfree and decently dressed. You’re to attend Old Uncle. The moment he opens his mouth, shove something into it or we’ll be hearing him all night long.”
Menolly groaned. Old Uncle smelled almost as much as he chattered.
“Sella’s much better handling him, Mavi…”
“Sella’s to attend head table. You do as you’re told and be grateful!” Mavi fixed her rebellious daughter with a stern eye, tacitly reminding her of her disgrace. Then Mavi was called away to check a sauce for the baking fish.
Menolly went off to the bathing rooms, trying to convince herself that she was lucky she hadn’t been banished completely from the Hall this evening. Though tending Old Uncle came as close as could be to banishment. Honor obliged the Sea Holder to have all his household there to greet the new Harper.
Menolly shucked off the dirty tunic and breeches, and slipped into the warm bathing pool. She swung her shoulders this way and that for the water to wash the sand and sweat as painlessly as possible from her sore back. Her hair was all gritty with sea sand, too, so she washed that. She was quick because she’d have her hands full with Old Uncle. It’d be much better to have him all arranged in his hearth seat before everyone else assembled for dinner.
Draping her dirty clothes around her, Menolly took the calculated risk that few people would be in the High Hold at this hour and charged up the dimly lit steps from the bathing pools to the sleeping level. Every glow in the main corridor was uncovered, which meant that the Harper, if such it were, would have a guided tour of the Hold later. She dashed down to the narrow steps leading to the girls’ dormitories, and got into her cubicle without a soul the wiser.
When she got to Old Uncle’s room, later, she had to clean his face and hands and slip a clean tunic over his bony shoulders. All the while he was chattering about new blood in the Hold and hee-hee who was the new Harper going to marry? He’d a thing or two to tell the Harper, give him the chance, and why did she have to be so rough? His bones ached. Must be a change in the weather because his old legs never failed to give warning. Hadn’t he warned them about the big storm a while back? Two boats had been lost with all crew. If they’d paid attention to his warning, it wouldn’t have happened. His own son was the worst one for not listening to what his father said and why was she hurrying him so? He liked to take his time. No, couldn’t he have the blue tunic? The one his daughter had made him, matching his eyes, she’d said. And why hadn’t Turlon come to see him today as he’d asked and asked and asked, but who paid him any heed anymore?